


Always (home)

by justatouchofrainbow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Confused Draco, Cute, Draco just wants a home, Feels, Fluff, Future Fic, Hogwarts, Introspection, M/M, Post canon, boys, eighth year, hand holding, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25025944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justatouchofrainbow/pseuds/justatouchofrainbow
Summary: Where forging your way out of the darkness sometimes means finding the light, and sometimes it means making it yourself, breath by breath.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	Always (home)

**Author's Note:**

> This was really written as a gift to my friend, but I figured I may as well post it here.  
> It was meant to be simple fluffy Drarry time and somehow became an introspective Draco fic, so there’s that. Oops.  
> TW for brief mentions of abuse and death.  
> Based on Always from Panicc! At The Disco.

When the world gets too heavy /  
Put it on my back, I'll be your levy /  
You are taking me apart like bad glue /  
On a get well card

* * *

“Do you see that?” Draco asks, and points with a perfectly manicured finger up at the sky.  
Harry snorts. “We haven’t even pulled out the firewhisky, and you’re already getting philosophical on me?”  
He gets a shove in reply, and jabs his elbow into Draco’s ribs in retaliation — which, of course, results in a kick to his shin and… well. It’s a short-lived wrestling match, and when they’re finally left panting next to each other, gazing upwards in companionable silence from the astronomy tower floor, Draco repeats: “Do you see that?”  
“The stars, yeah. They’re pretty. I guess.”  
Draco rolls his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching upwards involuntarily. “My mother used to tell me that they were the most pure hearted of souls, radiating their light from heaven to watch over us. That if you ever felt alone — wherever you were — you could always look up and take comfort in their presence. It’s… I mean, it’s kind of childish, now, I suppose, but…”  
Harry reaches out and intertwines their fingers. He squeezes them, just once, and Draco holds on. And perhaps, this time, it is enough.

* * *

It starts like this: they’re all sent back for their eighth year after everything is over. Hogwarts is still in the process of picking up the pieces — so is everything and everyone, really — but the Ministry and the school board decide that there should be a modicum of normalcy within the chaos.  
Draco returns with the rest of them. He gets tried — roped in with the Lestranges and the Carrows and all the others that had raped and tortured and killed — and he comes out exhausted, resigned, and with a permanent stain on his reputation. But he and his family are free from both Azkaban and a crazed megalomaniac, so he supposes that he should count his blessings. It still doesn’t stop the hollow detachment from filling his stomach when he sees Goyle senior get dragged off in handcuffs, though.

The students give him a wide berth. Not just him, though; the Slytherins, in general, are avoided like the plague and whispered about in the corridors, whether that be in disdain or fear or disbelief that they all actually had the nerve to show their “despicable, no-good” faces back at Hogwarts. Draco likes to think that it was because they all wished to redeem themselves, but realistically he knows that it was a matter of pride more than anything else.  
Harry Potter is hailed as a hero, the ‘chosen’ saviour; Hermione Granger as the smartest witch of their generation; Ron Weasley as the bravest wizard. ‘The Golden Trio’ is what they’re dubbed as — set to lead the magical population into a new era — and Draco thinks, privately, that it’s a heavy burden to place upon three war-torn teenagers. A small, bitter part of him scoffs at the fact that it would be perfect, golden boy Harry Potter that would earn such a role, but Draco shoves the thought firmly aside.

It takes only three weeks for Draco’s fragile peace to be interrupted.  
He’s in the library, and it’s a Saturday night.  
No person in their right mind would go and study on a Saturday, Draco thinks. Especially in the library.  
Which is why, when Draco shuffles in, bleary-eyed with his bag slung across his shoulder, it takes him a moment to register that Potter is sitting at his usual table. Studying. In the Hogwarts library. On a Saturday night.  
He blinks. Potter looks up, dark circles under his eyes, and offers Draco a ghost of a smile. “Malf-uh, Draco.”  
“Harry,” Draco returns with a nod, the syllables foreign as they trip off of his tongue. “My table…” He gestures, and Potter flushes slightly.  
“Sorry, I’ll just…” He begins to gather up his belongings, and on impulse, Draco blurts out:  
“You could stay.”  
Potter hesitates, and Draco looks away uncomfortably. “It’s- I’ll just be studying, anyhow, it doesn’t really matter-“  
“Yeah, no, of course,” Potter replies, relieved, and Draco turns just in time to catch the dropping of his hunched shoulders.  
Draco sits, unpacking his books, and they work in a strained — but not entirely uncomfortable — silence.

Rivals, he recalls distantly as he takes the long way back to the dormitories. Schoolyard enemies, without a doubt, and yet, had they not transcended that? At what point had the line begun to waver between adversary and hope, between rival and, possibly, a flickering reminder of freedom?

His mind flashes back to the moment, back to the Manor, back to his father’s piercing gaze… “Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”  
“I can’t – I can’t be sure,” he had responded, a primal instinct making his heart pump at three times the speed.  
Draco had been sure. He had sensed it, had known that face and the stubborn set to that jaw better than the damned mark which had blazed hot on his forearm. The mark he had traced over and over and over again in the dead of night, petrified and haunted by his own waking nightmares — the mark that was intended to represent where his loyalties lay. And yet, some visceral, graceless part of his mind had driven him, had made Draco throw aside all that his family had worked for, say ‘fuck it,’ and he had what… rebelled? Surrendered? Desired, perhaps?

He strips out of his robes methodically, the awareness of the other sleeping Slytherins a reassuring hum at the back of his mind. It is far from his home, Draco knows, but here there is no Dark Lord, no screams of the unfaithful or the unworthy, no frightened mother casting hunted looks around every corner, and no father whose only aim was to survive, survive, survive.  
They were all from fucked up families, were all trained to be monsters for a bigger cause or, at least, to stay neutral when given the choice amidst the desperate bid for power. But underneath that they were still kids, children with blood and bones and skin that could tear like any other no matter what side they stood on.  
And who else would look out for the monsters, if not their own kind, Draco thinks sardonically as he slips beneath the covers.

* * *

It was always you falling for me /  
Now there's always time calling for me /  
I'm the light blinking at the end of the road /  
Blink back to let me know

* * *

“Magic was a sin to them,” Harry says, and his tone is grim, jaded, makes Draco want to hunt down and strangle the Dursleys himself for instilling such bitterness in a child. “They wanted nothing to do with me because of it; I was an abomination, something that didn’t fit into their upper-class normal muggle lives. I didn’t deserve to be in their family… I should have been grateful to even get a roof over my head, as far as they were concerned.”  
Draco remembers back to his childhood: toy broomsticks and snitches and moving portraits and endless amounts of Quidditch games. He had been safe, loved — for a few years, at least — and despite what had followed, Draco had known what it was like to be free.  
“A freak,” Harry murmurs, and Draco swallows and grips Harry’s hand tight, tight, tighter. “I was a waste of space — well, I guess not entirely… Dudley didn’t mind me that much in the end.”  
“How long did that take?” Draco asks, and wonders briefly if he even wants to know the answer.  
Harry smiles mirthlessly. “Seventeen years, give or take, though I guess the dementors in fifth year helped a bit…”

* * *

Potter keeps coming every Saturday night after their first encounter.  
It isn’t just the library where Draco sees him, either; it was like the dam had broken, and now every way he turns there are flashes of dark hair and green eyes. It infuriates him, but, oddly, Draco welcomes the familiarity.  
And yet, despite the fact that Draco’s presence is a given, Potter continues returning to his table every Saturday night, always with a few books, a piece of parchment and some quills and ink to pass the time. Draco decides to leave it be. He refuses to give up his spot — it had taken him so damned long to find a good one, after all — so if Potter wanted to sit across from a previous source of his teenage angst for a few hours a week, then Draco wasn’t going to be the one to begrudge him the opportunity.  
“Your handwriting is still the same,” Potter remarks after four weeks had past, and Draco almost drops his quill.  
“If this is your fumbling attempt at conversation, Harry, then please send my sincerest condolences to Weasley and Granger,” he drawls in response, and it’s automatic, at this point, to feel the rush of exhilaration that follows.  
Potter’s cheeks grow scarlet, his eyes avoiding Draco’s gaze and flitting around the room. “That’s not what I meant, not at all. I just — it’s still neat and, I mean, it’s – it’s been a while…”  
Familiarity, Draco realises suddenly. After everything, here was something that Potter saw as constant, something that reminded him of a time lost to fear and the unspeakable acts of war. Like the glimpses Draco got of Potter in the hallways — and what did that mean, then?  
“Look, I’ll just…“ Potter mutters, and moves to begin collecting his things, his skin now red down to his neck and disappearing into his robes after the pause had continued to drag.  
Draco internally curses the impatience of Gryffindors as he reaches to grip Potter’s wrist. They still, and Potter stares, confused. Distantly, Draco wonders if his eyes were always so… green.  
He clears his throat, withdrawing his hand hurriedly. “I was taught this writing style when I was young. My father” —the word is acidic on Draco’s tongue—“was insistent on proper penmanship.”  
Potter leans forward, and a lock of dark hair travels from behind his ear to land on his cheek. Draco resists the urge to reach up and fix it, tries focusing on the curve of Potter’s jaw or the line of his nose instead, but finds himself equally distracted. “Did your father teach you?”  
“No,” he responds honestly, and it surprises him how easily the words spill from his lips. “My father hired tutors. He… cared for me, but had no time. The Ministry was unstable, and there was a massive influx of cases back then.”  
The reason for such uncertainty dangles in the air between them, unspoken but suffocating as it weighs down the ensuing silence. Draco hears the clock on the wall tick down the hour. He counts — 1, 2, 3, 4 — and then Potter hums noncommittally, nods, and the pressure eases. The rest of their time is filled with the scratching of quills on parchment and something that verges on companionship.  
A bridge, Draco reflects later. An olive branch, extended to begin paving the way down a delicate, untrodden path. There is potential; for what, Draco is unsure of, but it is pure, and bright, and for that Draco will cup it in his hands and treasure it for however long it lasts.

* * *

I'm a fly that's trapped in a web /  
But I'm thinking that my spider's dead /  
Lonely, lonely little life /  
I could kid myself in thinking that I'm fine.

* * *

“We were desperate.” Draco’s whisper is swept up into the wind; it is cold now, cold enough to make the tears trap themselves below his eyelids in dots of hot, roiling shame as he speaks. “Desperate, and so fucking proud, we didn’t even-“  
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says, and his voice is determined, uncompromising, but Draco can’t. Not with this. Not with Harry a line of warmth and comfort and safety along his side, a reminder of something that came before, something whole, and soft, and always startlingly absent… until.  
“But it does,” Draco insists urgently. “It matters, because we were so blinded by it; don’t you see? Our desperation for power, for survival, for fame, and recognition, and everything else — it wasn’t a coincidence that most of us were Slytherins, Harry, because ambition is dangerous when you have a fuel like that.”  
He feels the rush of blood in his veins, the fiery bitterness a stark contrast to the frigid air against his skin. He had not confessed this to anyone, never let the words escape from the tight coil deep within his stomach, because what was the point before now? What was the point — and yet he had yearned for it, yearned for a place to simply be, and say, and receive nothing but honest acceptance in return. Where once there was a curl of a lip and a swish of robes, there now was a hand, steady and grounding in its strength and Draco wonders, just for a moment, if it is the chill or something else causing his heart to constrict in his chest.  
“And you think bravery isn’t dangerous?” Harry questions, and there is an undercurrent of resentment there, of loss, and Draco cannot bring himself to look over at his face. “Do you think intelligence, or loyalty, or any human emotion isn’t dangerous when fuelled by desperation? It’s not clear-cut like what the houses make you believe it to be, Draco, and I learnt that the moment Peter Pettigrew was revealed as a traitor to my parents because he was desperate, the moment Sirius broke out of Azkaban to kill him because he was desperate. The moment Dumbledore sent a child out to war because he thought there was no other choice, even.”  
Draco feels Harry’s fingers spasm around his own, the calluses sending shocks of awareness up his arm and throughout his body. It is real in a way that many things have not been, and Draco feels something begin to gradually unravel as he listens.  
“Desperation fuels more than dangerous fuck ups based on pure selfishness,” Harry says. “I learnt this when I watched Snape give up everything for my mother. I learnt this when I watched Mrs. Weasley step up to protect Ginny from Bellatrix. I learnt this when you lied that night in the manor to give us some more time, and when your mother lied to Voldemort’s face in order to make sure you were alive and safe.”

* * *

Headmistress McGonagall, although strict, could always be counted on to be fair. After setting aside all of his pre-conceived house prejudices (albeit reluctantly), Draco admits to himself that he admires her, in a way — certainly more than he did Dumbledore, anyhow.  
“If I see that behaviour repeated one more time, Greengrass, it will be three months worth of detention. Do you understand me?” her voice rings out above the hushed whispers, clear and steely in its rage — a reprimand, but Draco does not doubt that the choice for it to be executed publically was purposeful. “This is a school, not a place to throw spells that could land others in the hospital wing injured. This is not something I would have thought needed teaching any longer, considering the recent events.”  
Astoria scowls but inclines her head in assent, and McGonagall rounds on Ginny Weasley.  
“The same goes for you. Words matter, Ms. Weasley. I would expect you, of all people, to understand this. We do not need any more divides within this school; we are all hurting, but we must move on, and allow others to do the same. Antagonising only divides. Unity is needed more than ever. Consider yourselves warned.”  
Weasley nods, eyes glistening, and as the crowd disperses Draco catches a glimpse of the shadow that falls over McGonagall’s face before she turns; she is old, and tired, but still determined and unmoving in the face of adversity. He is reminded, then, that this was once her mentor’s school to head before he had died, that McGonagall had loved and lost over the course of her life and was still ready to do her duty as a headmistress. And do it well, apparently.  
Another unsung hero, Draco muses, and begins to make his way to the library.

* * *

That I'm skin and bone /  
Just a king, and a rusty throne /  
Oh, the castle's under siege /  
But the sign outside says, "leave me alone.”

* * *

“I hated you,” Harry tells him, and Draco raises an eyebrow, amused.  
“I was under the assumption that this had already been established, Harry, or did you not attempt to curse me in sixth year and almost leave me to bleed out on the bathroom floor?”  
Harry flinches, his eyes downcast and Merlin, Draco is such a complete and utter fool for him.  
“I never actually apologised for that,” he says wryly, and Draco softens enough to sit up and cup Harry’s face with both hands, meeting his eyes squarely.  
“Mistakes are a natural part of living,” he answers, and cannot seem to pull his focus away from that gaze, that startling shade of green which somehow takes Draco’s breath away and makes it come easier to his lungs simultaneously. Draco is enraptured, has lost himself in this boy and knows, without a doubt, that wherever Harry goes will always be where Draco belongs. “We were rivals. Had I been in your position, I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same as what you did. Any dislike you held towards me was very much mutual, and that made us foolish. Let the blame be shared; I can assure you that I warrant a significant amount of it.”  
Harry’s eyelashes flutter as he searches Draco… for what, he is unsure of, but the light in his eyes is relentless, is filled with an unwavering tenderness that sends Draco’s head reeling. He feels the warmth of Harry’s cheek under his fingers, hears the sound of their mingled breathing and the thud-thud-thud of his heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest as he waits.  
Finally, Harry huffs a breath, turning his head to graze a feather-light kiss on to Draco’s palm. “To think I heard that from a Malfoy,” he remarks fondly, and Draco is too occupied with the phantom traces of Harry’s lips upon his skin to reply.

* * *

“You’re not meant to be here.”  
Potter turns, wand drawn, and Draco rolls his eyes as he approaches and leans against the window ledge beside him. His mind catalogues the short distance left between them, the light that plays across Potter’s face and illuminates his profile just so, the gentle swell to his lips as he moves them…  
“… and you’re not even listening to me, you prat, why do I even bother?”  
Draco snaps out of his reverie, and a bolt of ‘no, no, absolutely not’ flashes down his spine, leaving him dazed because this was not how things were meant to go, but he couldn’t just let Potter get the upper-hand, that was unacceptable. “Harry Potter, sneaking through the hallways at night. What would dear McGonagall think of such a rule breaker, I wonder?”  
Potter throws back his head and laughs, sudden and clear, and Draco’s eyes flick to the unmarred line of his exposed throat. He swallows reflexively, his mouth dry.  
“You say that like you have the right to be up here,” Potter accuses, and Draco smirks.  
“What if I do? I could be a prefect, for all you know.”  
Potter’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. They share a smile, and Draco is struck with the memory of the last time he was here, his wand clutched in a white-knuckled grip as he had faced Dumbledore and he couldn’t… he couldn’t, he had just wanted his home back, he had wanted and Dumbledore had smiled, had offered and it was forgiveness, was understanding, was...  
Potter’s stare is assessing now, and it takes Draco a moment, but then:  
“You know,” he breathes, and Potter says nothing, but that is all the confirmation that Draco needs.  
Of course he would, of course, because who else would see Draco at his weakest but Harry fucking Potter? Who else would be there to recognize him as the failure that he was but the boy who had triumphed despite all the odds stacked against him?  
His hands curl into fists; he is shaking, has to stop and choke back the scream of frustration that threatens to escape from the writhing mass inside his stomach.  
“The invisibility cloak,” Potter explains, and Draco is numb, numb, wants to cover his ears and block out everything, wants to leave and never look back. “I… we came back, Dumbledore and I, and he put me under a spell. I couldn’t move. All I could do was watch-“  
“Watch as I tried and failed to kill Dumbledore,” Draco finishes for him bitterly, and Potter nods. “And I couldn’t.”  
“You weren’t a killer,” Potter says, and his eyes are intent, unerringly present, like they are trying to scorch the words into Draco’s skin.  
“I was a failure.”  
“You weren’t a killer,” Potter repeats, and this time he steps closer, his stance firm. “You wanted something else; you were desperate, but killing him, it wasn’t-“  
“He threatened to murder everyone, Harry, of course I was fucking desperate.” And then there are arms encircling him, and his tears are soaking the front of Potter’s robes. Potter holds him together as he breaks, as he rages, and Draco hates this place, hates it, but his arms rise and clutch onto Potter in return and won’t let go as much as he tells them to.  
“I’m here,” Potter — no, Harry, Harry tells him. “I’m right here.”  
And Draco believes.

* * *

Blink back to let me know /  
It was always you /  
Blink back to let me know /  
It was always you

* * *

“Sixth year,” Harry says, and Draco sighs, exasperated.  
“If you mention the cursing incident again-“  
“I was overly obsessed with you.”  
Draco’s mouth snaps shut, and Harry smiles ruefully. “I mean, I was probably overly obsessed with you the entire time we knew each other, but in sixth year it was ridiculous. I watched you non-stop, I would follow you, trying to figure out what the heck you were doing-”  
“That bit was reasonable, considering the situation,” Draco interrupts, and Harry shakes his head.  
“I let myself get swept up in it. Even Ron and Hermione thought so. You made it hard not to, I guess.”  
Draco feels his breath catch, watches as Harry pushes himself up to mirror Draco’s seated position. He is close now, perhaps too close, and Draco observes the sweep of his eyelashes as he blinks, sees the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. There is potential here also, Draco knows, a sense of expectancy that leaves the moment charged and electric.  
“I liked getting under your skin,” Draco admits quietly, and Harry’s eyes are inexplicably fond as he leans into his space.  
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t resist that, now could I?”  
And then Draco feels the press of lips against his, soft, gentle, on the edge of too dry, with their hands still intertwined between them as he tilts his head and moves to better the angle. Draco tastes the lingering traces of chocolate on Harry’s lips, tastes the freshness of the air around them and something familiar, something innately human and Harry. The kiss is slow, curious, fragile in the stillness of the night, and Draco feels his heart unfurl and send spiralling waves of warmth throughout his body.  
It isn’t perfect, isn’t Earth-shattering — but it is them, is theirs, is another step in something they are building together. It is safety, and solace, the beginnings of peace, of home, and Draco…  
Draco thinks that, this time, it is enough.


End file.
